Chapter Text
Quiet.
Quiet.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Days bled into nights, nights blurred into silence and hunger, until time itself stopped meaning anything at all.
It all started after his stepmother left.
He can’t remember the exact words, doesn’t have the strength to care, but he remembers why. She left because his father didn’t come back fast enough. Her parents had called. She packed her things. And then…
She was gone. Both her and Tsumiki. Just like that. They left him. She just packed their bags and left at night, a sleeping Tsumiki over her shoulder, into the car waiting outside, like he was nothing. Like he didn’t even exist.
Food.
Food .
Well, not completely alone.
Sometimes the shadows whispered. Sometimes shapes moved in the corners of his ruined house. No one paid the bills. The power had been cut for weeks. The shadows and darkness turned into a blanket around him. At least there was still water.
Now it was nearing nightfall, and he was twenty minutes from home, digging through the metal container behind a small restaurant.
Hungry.
Hungry.
He found a half-filled takeout box with ramen, and his stomach growled in relief. Finally.
He’d been waiting all damn day.
Couldn’t go out during daylight; not unless he wanted another bucket of near scalding water thrown in his face, or hands grabbing at his arms like they had any right to to hit him. People didn’t see a kid when they looked at him; just some pest, crawling out of the gutter where they thought he belonged.
“Hey! You! Get out of there!”
The shout cracked through the air like a whip, and his body moved before he could think; clutching the box tighter, he couldn't lose it.
“Akiyoshi, call the police! The Trash Kid is back!”
The Trash Kid, as if he wanted to be in it. Panic slammed into him like instinct. The woman was coming closer; reaching for him. The woman came at him but too slow. Too clumsy. He dropped low, hit his knees hard on the concrete, and shot forward like a dog, slipping right between her legs. She yelped, but he was already gone, sprinting down the street, the ramen box rattling in his hands.
Keep running.
Don’t stop.
Voices chased him.
Footsteps.
Keep running.
Don’t stop.
He didn’t stop until the ramen shop was long behind him, the noise fading into the distance. But he didn’t go home right away — he wasn’t stupid. Not like them.
He ducked into an alley, crouched low in the shadows like the mutt they all thought he was, and waited. Waited until the stars were the only ones left watching him.
He waited.
And waited.
Only when the street was empty, illuminated only by the stars, did he creep out from hiding.
Home. If you could call it that.
He climbed up the side of the building, slipping in through the second-floor window like he’d done a hundred times before. The front door stayed barred these days; he'd pushed the couch table for hours until it blocked the door. The police had come once, tried to stuff him into a car. He didn't like strangers touching him.
Inside was silent. Still dark.
He padded toward his father’s old room, pulled loose a panel in the wall behind the bed, and crawled into the narrow crawlspace he’d claimed as his own. His little safe haven in case anyone dared come in. With a flick of his lighter, the candle sputtered to life. Just enough light to eat. He slurped the cold ramen straight from the box; at least it had a decent taste. His other hand worked clumsily at a scrap of paper with Tsumiki’s old colors; recently, he'd taken to drawing what he saw in his dreams.
Two dogs. One white. One black.
When he finished, he stared at it a moment longer, then scrawled his name beneath the sketch.
Megumi Fushiguro.
Eventually, he settled into a routine; not because he wanted it, but because there was nothing and no one else to talk to. He didn’t even know how long it had been since they left him. Days, weeks; maybe longer. Time is blurred when you have no one around you. He slept during the day, curled up tight in his hiding spot behind the loose panel in his father’s old room. The space was just big enough if he stayed small with knees tucked to his chest, or stretched out on his stomach when his body ached too much to stay curled. His father used to stash things in there; money, knives, who knows what else.
Now it was his den. It didn't matter if the police came for him again; they would never find him here.
When he woke up, if the sun was still high up in the sky, he’d slip out and wander through the empty house. Usually ended up in the room he used to share with Tsumiki; before she abandoned him. Reading was hard, the letters swimming around too much for him to care, so he’d grab whatever was left of her markers or paints and draw. On anything he could find; notebooks, books, receipts, walls. Didn’t matter. He was bored out of his mind.
Sometimes, when it got too quiet, he’d think real hard at the shadows. Not really talking out loud. Just… thinking at them. And sometimes, they’d answer.
His father had seen it once when he was even younger. Had laughed, low and mean, ruffling his hair rough enough to sting. “Oh, so you’ll be one of those special little brats, huh? I can tell. The Zenin’ll love you." He'd said.
Special. Right.
Didn’t feel very special when you were starving.
If the night felt safe, or if he’d managed to sneak a quick shower using Mrs. Haruno’s garden hose while she wasn’t looking, he’d head for the park. Not for fun; he wasn’t stupid. For trinkets. Or food. He learned fast how to move quiet. How to wait. How to slip a wallet from a distracted adult or pocket forgotten jewelry dropped from a kid’s jacket. Dangerous, sure. But not as dangerous as starving.
Once, the first time he´d tried it, a man caught him, big hand clamping down hard around his skinny arm, fingers digging in like a vice. The bruise stayed for days. Hurt like hell. He’d screamed loud and ugly, all teeth and wild kicks, until other people pried the man off. Some lady shoved him away, told him to run along to his parents.
Funny.
As if.
Still, served the bastard right; people yelling at him like he was the problem for a change. He limped away with the bracelet in his pocket, heading straight for the Lucky Lion; Zhao’s pawn shop. His father used to come here all the time, trading whatever he could get his hands on for a little cash; enough for drinks, enough for the horses.
It made sense that Megumi traded, too.
If he found trinkets or jewelry during his hunts, Zhao would always grin that sharp grin of his and wave him in. Sometimes he left with food. Sometimes with a little money. Sometimes, if Zhao was in a good mood, with candies or crayons.
Never for free, though. Nothing ever was. He’d seen it in the way Zhao tricked idiots who didn’t know better; smiling all friendly, saying “special price, just for you” with that grin of his, while sliding junk across the counter like it was treasure. They walked out happy. Zhao walked out richer.
Megumi paid attention. Because, that was another part of surviving, wasn’t it? Watching. Learning. Figuring out what people really meant when they smiled too wide or talked too nice. Figuring out when to shut up and when to run. Zhao liked him well enough; though that could be a front in case his Father returned or maybe just liked that Megumi never asked for favors. He brought things worth trading, didn’t whine, didn’t linger. He didn't even speak.
Quick in. Quick out.
Still, he wasn’t stupid. If there ever came a day when Megumi had nothing left to offer, Zhao would shut that door in his face like anyone else.
That was fine.
Better to know that upfront. Better than pretending. Better than being like those kids at the park; fat and careless, their pockets loose, their laughter too loud, like bad things didn’t happen to people like them. Like bad things hadn’t already happened to him.
By the time Megumi made it back to his house, the sky had already turned that dark blue before real night settled in. Which was perfect; less eyes and less people.
He set his haul down carefully, like it mattered; half a loaf of bread swiped from behind a bakery, two half-empty juice boxes abandoned at the park, a keychain shaped like a panda, and a ring; thin, delicate, probably cheap… but maybe gold. He’d seen some girl leave it behind on a bench while laughing with her friends. Easy pickings. If Zhao felt generous, maybe he could trade it. Maybe not. Didn’t matter. He’d try anyway.
Megumi sat cross-legged in the middle of the empty room. It was just him now. Him and the quiet. He tore into the bread, chewing quickly as he sorted through the week’s collection of prizes. Trinkets, loose change, bracelets, lighters, whatever idiot thing someone forgot or dropped without noticing. Little pieces of other people’s lives that belonged to him now. He hummed to himself as he worked, low and tuneless, barely louder than the creak of the old house settling around him. When everything was finally arranged just the way he liked, in neat rows, organized piles, he gave a small nod of approval. Satisfied.
Tomorrow at sundown, he’d head to Zhao’s.
He crawled back inside the narrow space behind the panel in his den, pulling the board shut behind him like it was a door. Safe. Quiet. In the tiny hollow, he lit the stub of his candle again, the flame flickering weakly against the cramped walls. He was too tired to draw tonight. His stomach felt heavy with bread and something he couldn't describe.
So instead, he lifted his hands to the candlelight.
A new pastime of his. Shadow puppets. A dog. Another dog. A rabbit if he twisted his fingers right. The shapes danced along the cracked wall in silence, simple and familiar. Sometimes, the shadows whispered back. Especially when he did the dog. Not words exactly. Just… something. Like a whisper against his ribs.
He found comfort in it, it was all he had.
At night, Megumi moved quickly through the darkening streets, cutting through alleyways and slipping past shuttered stalls. He wanted to be home before the moon sat dead-center in the sky; that was when the real monsters came out. The men who stole from the weak; like him. Megumi adjusted the Pokémon backpack slung across his shoulders, his trinkets safely inside. It took him a little over half an hour to reach Zhao’s shop, tucked between a shuttered ramen stand and a rusted laundromat, and he slipped in through the back door like always.
“Ah, my little helper,” Zhao crooned without looking up, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, “what’ve we got tonight?”
Megumi didn’t answer. He never did. Silently, he shrugged the backpack off his shoulders and set it on the table. Zhao grinned wide as he upended the bag, spilling its contents across the wood; bracelets, earrings, a keychain, a ring, amongst other trinkets.
“You’ve got an eye for things,” Zhao said, whistling low as he examined a pair of delicate earrings. “Must be Toji’s doing… blood runs true, eh?”
Megumi’s chest tightened, but before he could bristle in anger, he felt something inside him stiffen suddenly.
Wrong .
Something itched at the back of his skull. Prickled down his spine. His eyes flicked around the backroom; it was the same peeling walls, same crates of junk, same overhead light buzzing faintly. Zhao’s guards lounged near the front, playing cards, bored.
But still—
Wrong .
His shadows whispered urgently, a low thrum only he could feel. He was sure of it.
Leave .
He wanted to. He really, really wanted to. But leaving empty-handed meant going hungry tomorrow. And Zhao owed him, even if it was just instant noodles or a few hundred yen. He took a slow breath, eyes tracing the exits. If something went sideways, the back door wasn’t far.
Then the front door creaked open, and the air shifted in a way he'd never felt before. It was like the air in the street outside dropped ten degrees; it was like breathing through wet cloth. He could feel the pressure coil around his ribs, squeezing tight. Something was here. And they weren’t right.
Three sets of footsteps followed it in.
“I hear you sold a ring recently,” a woman’s voice, cool, steady. He'd never heard it before.
Zhao didn’t look up. “Sweetheart, I sell a lotta things,” he drawled, still counting through Megumi’s loot. “Gonna have to be more specific.”
“A white band,” she said, unbothered. “Yellow stone. Engraved. To a man with grey hair.”
Zhao stilled for half a second. Then he gave a low whistle, pulling out his wallet. Without looking at Megumi, he shoved it into his hands. “Go home, kid,” he muttered. “Tell your mom I expect the rest of what she owes me.”
He didn’t have a—
Oh. Oh hell.
The air snapped like a whip. The guards were standing now, hands twitching toward their weapons, fists curling.
Megumi didn’t wait.
He bolted, his heart hammering, shadows screaming at him, and tore through the back door just as something exploded behind him. Of course, his shitty dad’s shitty friends were knee-deep in messes like this. Was a ring worth killing over?
He didn’t get far.
Footsteps pounded behind him and rough hands closed around his arm, yanking him clean off his feet. “Gotcha,” a man’s voice snarled. “She’s going to have questions for you, brat.”
Panic clawed up Megumi’s throat. Instinct kicked in faster than thought. Abruptly, he twisted and bit down hard on the man’s hand. Salt and copper flooded his mouth. It worked. Halfway. The man cursed, jerking his hand back, but grabbed a fistful of Megumi’s hair instead, dragging him back.
“Oh, now you’ve done it—” The man’s other hand curled into a fist, rising.
And without thinking, without even fully knowing what he was doing, Megumi slammed his palms together, hard. Help me. The shadows at his feet bubbled like boiling water. Two snarls, low and furious, echoed from the dark.
And then they were there. Two wolves, muscle and fang and rage, lunging straight for his attacker with murder in their glowing eyes.
The man screamed, a sharp, raw sound, but it was cut off almost instantly. The black wolf tore into his throat, while the other sank its teeth deep into his arm, shredding flesh like paper. Megumi stood frozen, breath caught in his chest, heart hammering against his ribs. Slowly, the wolves turned to him. Their muzzles dripped crimson, eyes gleaming in the dark like embers. And yet... they didn’t lunge. They sat. They watched him; expectant, patient.
We help.
I help more .
The world tilted beneath him. Those voices. He knew them. They’d always been there; whispers in the corners of his mind. His shadows. Maybe... maybe his shitty father had been right about something, for once. Maybe the his old man hadn't been entirely full of shit.
He was special.
Now ?
Home?
Yes , he thought we go home. And just like that, the wolves rose without a sound, flanking him on either side as he broke into a run. They kept pace effortlessly, all the way back to the small, empty apartment.
Later, curled up on the worn floor of his room, pencil in hand, he sketched them, his wolves, teeth bared, fur blood-soaked, tearing into the man who tried to drag him away. Sleep tugged at him harder than usual; he was getting tired and didn't really understand why. But he didn’t care. He wasn’t alone anymore.
At the bottom of the page, the one thing he knew how to write.
Megumi Fushiguro.
Left behind? Maybe.
Not by himself, not anymore.
Never by himself.